


The Pitiable and Other Beforus Lore

by krazieLeylines



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Beforus, Beforus Ancestors, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Culling, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazieLeylines/pseuds/krazieLeylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the scratch, Karkat was known as the Pitiable. He was culled by the highblood known as the High Rapso Al-Giedi, of the purple caste, and the capricorn sub-caste, as a gift from the Empress, Her Imperial Compassion. Born and raised as a hivetroll, he eventually grew up to be one of the most influential men in the revolution against the Beforus Empire. </p><p>Karkat and Meenah discover the Pitiable's old letters to his grubmother, the Counture, and decide to brush up on some Beforus history, if only to cure their boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An introduction as to set up the story

Time had nearly no meaning in the dream bubbles. As Karkat slept, he dreamt up his old hive, his old respite block. He tried to keep it to himself, but other people’s memories kept colliding with it. Today, one of Meenah’s giant gold statues (made into a replica of herself, obviously) fell through the west wall, and the towers of Derse could be seen out his window, and ever so slowly, the part of his house facing the towers was turning purple. 

If life on the meteor was boring, life in the dream bubbles was doubly so, and had the added nuisance of vexing neighbors. Karkat thought up as many defenses as he could manage to keep the dancestors, as they so annoyingly had dubbed themselves, out of his personal memories. Sometimes he swore he could hear crabdad scuttling around downstairs, but so far had been too chicken to actually check. 

Meenah had broken through his defenses so many times now that Karkat didn’t even bother trying to keep her out. Compared to the others, she was a little less horrifying, even if her flushcrush was starting to make things uncomfortable between them. 

Her company was better than no company at all, and as he was rarely visited by anyone else in the dream bubbles, save for the occasional impromptu visitation of a clown with crazy silent ninja feet, Meenah was usually the only company he kept. Her usual spot, which she was currently occupying, was on top of Karkat’s computer desk, after she shoved said computer onto the ground with the defense that he could just imagine it fixed again when he had need of it. 

“Shouty, I am so glubbin’ bored.”

Karkat glanced up from the book he had been reading. This hadn’t been the first time she said that today, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. “I offered to read you one of the greatest works of fiction known to every universe that has or hasn’t existed, but you snubbed me with your scaly little fish nose, so you’re on your own, princess.”

“If it’s so amafin, how come I ain’t ever heard of it?” Meenah countered, tossing the trident that she had been in the middle of sharpening down on top the smashed computer. “What kinda lamebass book title is The Notebook, anyhow?”

“It’s an Earth book, but even for a race that lacks any real grasp on the complexities of emotion and the very simple theory of the pity-hate/concupiscent-conciliatory quadratic grid of romantic relationships, it’s surprisingly not terrible. Actually, it’s the exact opposite of terrible. This book kicks ass in such a way that any goddamn notable sociologist would read it front to back a minimum of five times.” Karkat placed the makeshift bookmark Gamzee had made him out of redpop and grape Faygo labels, which was already falling apart despite the insane amounts of glue the circus freak had drowned it in, in the book to mark his place as he turned to face Meenah to rant at her properly. “Not to mention that it has valuable insight into the social workings of human culture and rom—”

Karkat barely managed to dodge the throwing star Meenah chucked at him.

“Nubby. Shut your adorabubble crabtrap mouth up,” Meenah demanded, and though there was a slight tenderness to her tone, Karkat was still tense.

“Was that Sollux’s throwing star?”

“Might’ve been Tuna buoy’s,” Meenah answered, “seaing as I haven’t ever met your Captor. Just found them in a chest an thought I could get a few resperchable boonies from dem.” She shrugged her shoulders as if the question itself bored her. “Don’t much matter, do it? Neither one a them are gonna be makoing a use a dem anytime soon. Hey! So since we’re agreed to knot reading that book for minnowpausal beaches, let’s do somefin else. Somefin fun.”

Karkat watched her evenly, before placing pulling his book back into his sylladex. “Well, if you have something of the sort in mind, my ear percussion instruments are as open as Cronus’s quadrants.” 

They exchanged a bro bunp as Meenah gave a “Shell yeah!”

“Ocray but seariously, I got the best idea since scuba divin’. If you like stories wit lots of romance an gossfishy shit like that, I know a certain gill who has in her collection the most scandalous f-ing fishtale, it’s just gonna blow your think pan like a whale, shouty.”

“Goss… fishy?”

“Gossipy. It sounded betta in my head.” Meenah stretched her arms over her head and slid to her feet. “Whale? You gonna tag along?”

Karkat almost asked her if he had a choice, but Meenah graciously answered his question ahead of time as the setting around them suddenly changed, and they were in Aranea’s library. Aranea in question was hunched over a large book, which was quickly snapped closed at the appearance of her guests, and disappeared into her sylladex. Karkat didn’t give her guilty look much of a thought, supposing it had to do with some self-indulgent Mindfang journal reading. At least this Serket knew her insane obsession with herself was embarrassing. 

“Yo Aranea,” Meenah called, dragging Karkat forward by his wrist, “I’ve changed my mind aboat the learnin’ the legend of Beforus’s ancestors. Crabkat over here wants to get the low-down of his pre-scratch self. Which obviously won’t be as awesome-sauce as my post-scratch self, but whatevs. I’m shore it’ll still be somefin worth readin’ anywave.”

“Really?” Despite being lifeless, someone Aranea’s eyes appeared to light up. Within seconds she was digging through a pile of books until she found a dusty wooden box and dragged it out into the light of the single lamp in the block near her desk. 

The lid had deformed to the point where it was difficult to take off, and it gave Meenah and Karkat time to go over to be present when the contents of the box were exposed. 

Inside was a stack of papers tied with string, a couple of books ranging from large, jewel-encrusted journals to small leather-bound notebook. On top of all of this was a single flash card, written in Aranea’s blue ink. She had a list going, in large, easy to read print, that said that following:

1\. The Pitiable’s letters to the Counture and High Rapso  
2\. Her Imperial Compassion’s journal, pg 38  
3\. Daredame Firewing’s last testimony 

“Oh my actual fuck,” Karkat said with a grimace, “are those some of our titles? What kind of fucked up name is… Daredame? That sounds like something Latula would… oh my god, that’s Terezi’s pre-scratch title, isn’t it?”

Aranea fixed Karkat with a very disapproving glare. “Why yes it is,” she replied snippily, overplaying her offense a bit, “and if you read the stories, it all makes sense.”

The letters tied together with string was obviously the first part of the story, Meenah assumed as she scooped them up and starting to untie them. Aranea jumped to tell her to be careful, and the Beforian heiress waved her off. “I know what I’m doin’, ocray? Clam your carp down, gill. So I’m assumin’ these are…” Meenah glanced towards the flash card. “The Pitiable’s letters to the Counture. Fuckin’ pitiful title, the Pitiable. What did he do to earn himshell such a piss-poor title?”

“It was a title of endearment that he earned by being born with a blood color that had never been seen on Beforus before, and earned him fans who flocked to him to see the veins that flowed with the color that reminded them all of redrom romance.”

Meenah and Aranea looked at Karkat, whose left eye had developed a sudden twitch.

“Wow, no,” Karkat spat, “Pity-love, yeah, I get it. Are you telling me that I was worshipped for my blood color, and Kankri still has the nerve to complain about being oppressed by the caste system? And here I was thinking that he couldn’t become any more of a goddamn self-victimizing, hypocritical, worthless piece of crap tool, but hey, I guess there is something below rock fucking bottom on the ladder of douchebag personalities.” He crossed his arms angrily. “The Pitiable. What a stupid ass name.”

It took a few moments for Meenah to be able to unfold the first letter with Aranea hovering near her and constantly reminding her to “be gentle, Meenah!” but at last, after Meenah managed to fend off the anxiety-ridden librarian with an elbow, the strangely familiar handwriting was revealed.

Karkat just stared for a long minute.

“Holy fuck me up the ass shit.” Karkat put a finger to the aged paper, pressing it flat against the desk’s top as it began to slowly curl back towards its previous form. “That’s my handwriting. Like, my literal exact handwriting.”

“Yeah.” Meenah stood next to Karkat, scratching her elbow. “It’s almost pike you two were the same person, crabcakes.”

Aranea’s head spun back and forth between the paper and Karkat. “That’s your exact handwriting? I assumed it was messy due to your… lack of education.” The ending of her sentence was merely whispered, as Meenah began to give Aranea a “oh no beach you ain’t reely just aboat to say that” look. “It was somewhat of a headache to read, I must admit.”

“What the shit are you talking about?” Karkat jabbed the fading ink words with a pointer finger, “My letters are large, bolded, and easily recognizable. I don’t even include any completely useless lower case letters, to make shit even less complicated than it never needed to be.”

“Karkat, it looks like chicken scratch,” Meenah informed him.

It kind of actually did, and Karkat decided that he was done arguing two to one. He coughed behind a fist, and waited for someone else to say something before he actually had to agree with them.

“Wait!” Aranea’s exclamation startled the two other trolls, but she didn’t even pause to take a breath before continuing, “Since you can read your own handwriting, perhaps you can read this aloud for us! I’ve always had a few words or passages that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. This can be a lesson for all three of us!”

“Read it? Like, read it aloud?” Karkat thought it strange that he had offered to read to many of his friends, but was never taken up on the offer except for one strange time he read to Rose, only to be unable to continue through a particularly raunchy scene. They both had agreed to read the stories separately from there on out. “How the tables have fucking turned. Alright, hand me the first letter, as it’s dated, and I will regale all of you with tales of my badass pre-scratch self.”

At least, he hoped they were badass. The Signless’s tale had been badass, but then again, Kankri was the farthest thing from being entertaining. Karkat really hoped that didn’t make his pre-scratch self an absolute bore. 

“Sounds good, minnowature Pitiable. Regale us.”

Karkat coughed again, and Meenah sighed heavily before pulling the dusty chair in the corner to sit down on. Aranea pulled herself up onto the corner of her desk.

“Now that you are all comfortable, and ready to be schoolfed on the possibly best ancestor that has ever lived,” Karkat began in his specially rehearsed reader voice, which was much like his own, just louder. He unfolded the letter again, realizing he was probably going to have to do that often, or else hold it so that it couldn’t curl. He decided upon the latter, as smoothing the aged fabric made an irksome crinkling noise.

A third cough was politely covered by a fist, and Karkat nodded to his audience. He was pleased to see he had even Meenah’s undivided attention. “Ahem. Dearest grubmother, even as I sit here in this grand hall and write to you, I am still amazed at the events that have led me here to this letter…”


	2. The Pitiable meets his culler

Illsayer was late. Karkat’s spine was beginning to ache from the ridgedly straight posture he held himself in, the red silk clothes and decorative gold ruby-encrusted jewelry he wore making him a treat to the eyes. The mimastery’s servants had even supplied him with a pile of pillows to rest in, but not Karkat was beginning to regret their enticing downy softness, for all he wanted to do was sprawl back in them. Nevertheless, he was a hivetroll, and an expensive one at that, and he would not be caught by his buyer lounging about someone else’s hive like some cheap pale escort.

And so here he was, legs crossed, hands rested on his knees, breathing in the superfluous amount of incense in the air. A mere eight sweeps, born with a blood color that had never been seen before, and worth a fortune that only the Empress herself had had the security to afford without putting a dent in her limitless wealth, and Illsayer had the audacity to be late meeting him.

Just as Karkat was thinking of complaining to one of the brahmimes, a servant came in to announce the highblood’s entrance. 

Karkat’s first impression of Illsayer wasn’t extraordinary by any measure. Like all the highblood brahmimes that worked and prayed at the mimastery, his face was coated in white paint, turning his face into a jester-esque mask. He was tall, but with no meat on him. His horns were long and gently curled, first inwards, and then outwards, and his hair was full of thick curls, even the strands pulled back into his ponytail. He wore the simple clothes of a devout brahmime, all jewelry, crest symbols, or other expressions of individuality hidden away in his private chambers, so that he, his brothers, and his sisters could worship as equals. 

Illsayer gave a deep bow, to which Karkat responded with one of his own. Back straight, elbows tucked by his sides, just as his grubmother had taught him.

“So you are the surprise gift Her Imperial Compassion has sent to me?” Illsayer appeared somewhat disappointed, to Karkat’s fury, as he sat down in front of him. “Forgive me if this brother is ever being unceremonious with you, but you are my first hivetroll. My only experience with culling is what I’ve been observing of my fellow brahmimes.”

The highblood’s speech was somewhat odd, and Karkat wondered if Illsayer’s schoolfeeding had covered the basics of grammar with him. 

“No apology is needed.” Karkat forced his words to sound pleasant and endearing. “Allow me to introduce myself, Illsayer.” Karkat shouldn’t have had to introduce himself. Surely the magnificent, designer outfit he wore said it all. “I am called the Pitiable, so named for the blood that flows within my veins. It is a shade of red to rival the flushed and pale pity-love of redrom. No troll has been recorded to possess this color before me.”

“Oh, yes. I have heard of you.” Illsayer scratched his back, slouching a bit to do so, and Karkat seethed with the burn of his wounded ego. “The jadeblood, the Counture, made quite a name all stealing ideas inspired from your blood, yeah?”

Twice insulted, Karkat almost stood up to leave. “The Counture was my grubmother,” Karkat informed Illsayer coldly, “The Empress was so enthralled with her eye for majestic attire that she hired her to make all her ceremonial garb. Were it not for their friendship, Her Imperial Compassion would have not had the opportunity to purchase me for your tenth wriggling day, which I believe doubles as your anointment as High Rapso.”

The brahmime wilted at the reminder, and Karkat didn’t think his hatred of his culler could get any deeper. This man, Karkat thought, was clearly not worthy of the throne he was born to.

The servant from before returned, brought in a plate of simple snacks, and placed it between them without a word. The crumbling, aged cheese and diced melon pieces in particular had Karkat salivating at the idea of eating, but he knew his place, and did not reach for anything until his culler had taken his turn first. Yet Illsayer didn’t even reach a finger towards the food.

“Today is indeed all the day of anointment,” Illsayer finally spoke, as if being afraid of confirming it out loud, “I share High Rapso Al-Deneb’s sub-caste, the Capricorn crest. High Rapso Al-Deneb is going to be celebrating his good old two hundredth this sweep.”

Two hundred sweeps seemed like an impossible amount of time to spend in life to Karkat. His grubmother told him not to expect to reach his twentieth wriggling day. To live that long ten times over, well, Karkat could understand why the High Rapso desired retirement. Still, Karkat wished he had waited a bit longer, for another, more suitable genetic descendant to take over.

The silence, Karkat realized, was his fault, but before he could correct his error, Illsayer spoke up again. “Don’t go fasting yourself on my account,” he told Karkat, “This is a holy day; I cannot take food or drink besides water and bread. The snack was brought for you, Pitiable.”

The title just sounded wrong in Illsayer’s mouth, and Karkat winced all over. “Karkat Vantas is my grubname,” he informed his culler, “As your hivetroll, you are entitled to that information.” Feeling weirdly okay with giving out his grubname to a man he had just met, Karkat reached for a cube of watermelon, letting it drip before taking it into his mouth. The fruit was sweet as syrup, and Karkat knew then and there that he would enjoy his new home.

“Karkat.” Illsayer was smiling when Karkat glanced back up at him, an easy grin that deepened two dimples in his face that Karkat hadn’t noticed before. “If you want, you can use my grubname, Gamzee Makara. What else can a brother do to be making you comfortable, Karkat?”

It didn’t even take five seconds for Karkat to think up an answer. “A pen and quill, if you please. I would like to keep in touch with the Counture.”

\--

Normally, the brahmimes were under an oath of complete silence. As Karkat wandered the dimly-lit corridors trying to find his way to the temple, he passed a few brahmimes, most of them having already put on their ceremonial necklaces of beast canines and bones. Quite a few of the highbloods snuck glances to Karkat’s neck, which was bare of any identifying crest that satisfied their curiosity of who his culler was. Nor did they ask. Even the shuffle of their bare feet was near silent.

Following the direction that the majority of them were taking, the Pitiable eventually found himself in the courtyard of the mimastary. The building that stood as the temple was easy to pick out, but Karkat decided he had enough time to sit and enjoy the grass between his toes.

The sun was setting, so he didn’t get to enjoy its rays, but nevertheless, Karkat finally felt at peace and at home. The abbey where Karkat had been born and raised by the Counture had a similar courtyard, although it dwarfed in size to the stretch of land the highblood mimastary owned. He watched as a few other hivetrolls gathered in play a few dozen or so meters away. None were garbed as extravagantly as he was, but they definitely stood out from the plain-dressed brahmimes. Most were younger than he was, and he wondered if they had been culled from birth. Did they not know of any other life than that of excessive coddling and luxury? 

It was true that the Counture had kept him longer than was socially acceptable, but the other grubmothers had enjoyed his company in their small abbey with their dreary, monotonous schedule. Karkat did not regret his upbringing, except perhaps the tasteless porridge. 

His mind was caught up in the past when a shadow fell over him, and Karkat snapped into a stiff, perfect posture at the sight of his guest, before lowering his forehead to his legs.

“Her Imperial Compassion, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

The Empress was a divine woman in both appearance and personality. Her bioluminescent freckles and wise, white-lashes framed eyes were the same shade of royal fuchsia, and her gown obviously couldn’t have been designed by anyone but the Counture, translucent neon green and blue fabric falling around her legs like waves on the shoreline, a white skintight dress underneath covering her from throat to thighs. The frills of her cheek gills fluttered whenever she smiled, and despite only being a little over a hundred sweeps, rumors said that she had retained the same size and appearance of her seven sweep old self, back when she had been crowned. 

“Pitiable old friend,” the Empress greeted Karkat, lifting his face with an ice-cold palm to his cheek, “Don’t bow to me. I have worried for you, and came seeking an embrace.”

Indulging her was easy, and Karkat stood up quickly to take her into his arms, and her laughter chimed like bells. She was light enough that Karkat could lift her off the ground, despite being half a head shorter, to which the Empress squealed with naked joy. “Oh, I have missed you,” she told Karkat once she was grounded again, muttering into his shoulder, “In all my travels, I am never happier than when I am makoing merry with my favorite mutant-blood.” 

The hivetrolls across the yard were beginning to stare, Karkat noticed, and so he allowed a reasonable distance to come between himself and Her Imperial Compassion. “I have missed you, too, Empress,” Karkat replied truthfully, “and to be blunt, saddened that I wasn’t culled by you.”

“Oh, I would have if it would have been safe,” the Empress agreed empathetically, “Unperchately, I am alwaves on the road, and often dodging assassination attempts. That is no life for a hivetroll, either to stay at my main palace and bait for my return in a large, frondless respiteblock, or to come with me, hiding from those that seek to end my life.” She used a long, golden tipped claw to move Karkat’s hair away from his eyes, reminding him that it was getting long, and in due for a cut. “I have known Illsayer for a couple of sweeps, you know,” she added, when she saw that Karkat was not convinced, “He was in desperate need of your special sort of affishion.”

Karkat exhaled a loud, disbelieving breath. “He is in desperate need of something,” he agreed dryly, to which he received a friendly swat. 

“In all my sweeps, you are the only troll who has dared to disagree with me to my face, save my moirail.” To hear Her Imperial Compassion say so, it sounded like a noble accomplishment. She wound her arm around Karkat’s, much to the jealous stares of the other hivetrolls, and flashed him a glorious shark-fanged smile. “Shell we go watch my childhood frond be anointed? I reserved you a seat basside mine.”


	3. Gamzee Makara's Anointment

A few miles from the mimastary, a carriage made entirely of metal rolled down the road after the six robotic steads pulling it along. The man steering held the iron chains acting as reigned in two leather-bound fists. Nearly all the rest of him was covered in leather as well, the outfit fastened together with thick metal clasps. Every troll but the one at his side knew him only by his title, the Mechanic. His near supernatural strength was quite well-known, but his knack for machinery was legendary. 

Nepeta, his olive-blooded moirail, had recently earned herself the title of Quadrant Brokette, but she was still new to introducing herself as such. The Mechanic had ensured that his moirail was properly attired for the momentous event that was the anointment of the new High Rapso. A sweatheart black dress that fell scandalously right below the knee, a matching wide-brimmed hat, and a jacket in the color of her midblood caste, clasped together at her breast with a broach inscribed with the heart and diamond of her trade. Her legs were covered in sleek green fabric down to her feet to protect her from the wandering eyes of pervert-minded scum. 

It was not often that the Mechanic allowed her to dress so provocatively in public, but he would let this one day slide. It was not every hundred sweeps that a new High Rapso was anointed. This particular brahmime was one that the Mechanic had encountered before, in fact, and while the Mechanic wouldn’t vouch for Illsayer’s competency in the role, he had no right to complain or otherwise insinuate he disagreed with High Rapso Al-Deneb’s choice of heir. 

The Mechanic would need something else to complain of in order to relieve his migraine. Partway through their trip to the mimastary, it came to him.

“I visited the Apotheca the other day,” the Mechanic spoke up after a bought of silence, which caused Nepeta to jolt a bit from her book. “You said you didn’t,” Nepeta began to argue, but the Mechanic waved her off. “As loathe as I was to lie to you, I could not admit to my shame yet,” he confessed, “Her most recent rejection was even worse than the usual fare, and I cannot understand how she can continue to barter with me! How much am I expected to promise her before she bends?”

Nepeta’s book was shut and put aside, as she gave her full attention to her moirail. “Purrhaps Aradia truly sees no reason to be culled, Equius,” she suggested, not for the first time, “She was born with no deficiencies, no mewtations, has gained no disability or illness… Honestly, there is no cause for her to become anyone’s hivetroll.”

“What have I told you about using grubnames, Nepeta?” Equius took a square of coarse fabric from his breast pocket to soak up the perspiration beading at his brow. “Just because you were part of her hatchpile and hold the same amount of sweeps as her does not make you equals. Perhaps once, when you were wrigglers who made jokes of their own waste, it would have been so. But as adults, upon receiving your very first title, you are part of a bigger social network. Sweeps will no longer have the same effect on each troll. Once, you made alliances among your sweep group. Now, you connect by more powerful bonds. Your very title should remind you of such.”

Half-way through the Mechanic’s speech, Nepeta had blocked him out. When he finished with “Quadrant Brokette”, Nepeta snapped back to attention, and had nothing but a sigh to offer him in return for his wisdom.

“I don’t know why you have to get so uppity about such minor offenses as what combination of sounds I use to name people,” Nepeta replied casually, keeping a hand on her hat in case the warm breeze coming from the ocean decided to snatch it away, “I, for one, do not want to be addressed as the Quadrant Brokette in informal confursaion.”

“I refuse to let you let strangers address you with such familiarity, Nepeta,” Equius growled, to which Nepeta only scoffed and wrapped herself around one of his large arms.

Their debate was put to a pause then, as they came to the large gates of the mimastary, and waited until the servants opened them and allowed them to continue up the cliff side to the temple. The mechanical animals were regarded with no little amount of fear, as usual, but the Mechanic held his chin high, proud of his inventions and their unwavering ability to bring him and his moirail safely to their destination time after time. 

A few other carriages had already arrived and been parked to the side of the temple, and Equius found a place for his own amongst them as Nepeta stood up to gawk at the brahmimes silently greeting the guests as they ushered them inside. 

“They truly do paint their faces white,” Nepeta murmured in awe, to which Equius took his turn to scoff at her silliness. 

“Of course they do, my moirail.” Equius hopped down so that he could help Nepeta down like a gentleman. “Brahmimes have always decorated themselves in all manner of death motif, for reasons they keep under their eternally held tongues. They have special blocks reserved for intimate conversation, but otherwise remain mute as dead men. I am only explaining this now so that you do not ask. To request secret information from holy children of God would be blasphemy. Please, do not jeopardize the respect my title carries, Nepeta.”

Mimicking the movements of a noble lady nearby, Nepeta took the fabric of her dress in hand as she stepped onto the mimastary’s nicely kept land, aptly avoiding crushing any clusters of flowers underfoot as she followed Equius towards the front doors. “I would not, I purromised earlier, didn’t I?”

To her dismay, Equius wasn’t even listening to her anymore. Nepeta stopped short as Equius did, right in front of a young noblewoman, garbed entirely in various shades of white and gray, a network of silver necklaces hanging down to her bosom. The cerulean of her eyes was the only blue on her, and she extended a gloved hand to Equius to kiss as Nepeta eyed the strange troll warily. “Basileia Whiteweb,” Equius spoke her title with obvious distaste, and Nepeta instantly stiffened, “How is your eyesight?”

Upon taking a closer look, Nepeta noticed that Whiteweb’s irises were larger than a normal trolls, split into four overlapping circles on both sides. Nepeta imagined she could see one of the circles slide ever so slightly towards her as she leaned forward.

“Your translucent lenses allow me vision eight times over that of my childhood sight,” Whiteweb commended the Mechanic with no little amount of awe, “Even before the unfortunate strain I caused my eyes with all my study in dim light, I could never see so far or so clearly. You are a troll of the future, Mechanic.” She took a pause in speaking, quite obviously not finished, but building suspense as she crooked her head towards Nepeta. “Which is why I wonder at how you took a moirail so below your caste.”

Before Nepeta could jump to redeem their palemance, even before Equius could take care of his sudden bought of stress induced sweat, Whiteweb was laughing. “That was just a jest, by the way. This is the Quadrant Brokette I’ve heard of, I assume? Oh, don’t look at me so, Mechanic. Any word that passes from mouth to mouth eventually finds its way to my ears. Shall we find a seat?”

\--

“—she hates the chill of the north, I do hope her stay is temporary,” Karkat said to the Empress in a whisper. Although there were groups of other visitors making conversation among the pews, the relentless silence of the brahmimes had him self-conscious of his own volume. The Empress had no such problem being heard, though, to Karkat’s great distress. Her laughter echoed off of the stone walls and domed ceiling as she nodded in agreement with his words.

“The Counture told me the same when she was commissioned to make the Czarista Rimedfin’s kismesissitude wedding gown,” Her Imperial Compassion giggled, “but the pay was too grand for your dear grubmother to pass up. But don’t worry so; she shall be back before this perigee is up.” 

Her Imperial Compassion’s attention was caught, it seemed to Karkat, by something over his shoulder, and he turned just as the Empress stood to address the three new trolls. 

“Basileia, I see you have made some friends,” the Empress cooed, reaching out a hand to squeeze the closest troll’s gloved fingers in a warm greeting, “Oh, well if isn’t the Mechanic?” Karkat saw that she was referring to the large, plainly garbed one. Karkat had heard a few tales of the Mechanic, and how it was claimed he could crush melons with his thumb alone. The girl latched on his arm was obviously his moirail—Karkat knew pale romance when he saw it. There was no excess of passionate tension buzzing in the open space between them, and she kept moving closer to him whenever another troll so much as brushed past her, as if ready to protect him from an enemy. 

The Mechanic bowed low enough that his horns came inches from the floor, and after a second of confusion, his moirail followed suit as soon as she recognized the Empress’s crown.

“Let us have introductions all around,” Feferi insisted, “Mechanic, Basileia, this is my good frond, the Pitiable. I am sure you have heard the stories about his strange mutation. Illsayer is now culling him. Pitiable, this is the Mechanic and Basileia Whiteweb. The Mechanic earned his title very young, and is responsible for a great perchcentage of all invenfins crafted in the last forty or so sweeps. Whiteweb earned her fame quite recently, in fact, ruling over the terratory of Monastral and its neighboring towns after Basileia Quidnunn’s unexpected demise. Unfortunately, I have not yet met or heard of your guest, Mechanic. What are you called, dear?”

Karkat himself was mostly uninterested by their new guests. The Mechanic, despite his reputation, was quite unimpressive in person, and Whiteweb appeared to be just another one of those stateswomen who did little else but marinate in their own perceived importance. However, his interest was perked for a moment when he heard the title “Quadrant Brokette” mentioned.

“A matchmaker,” the Mechanic added, talking over the oliveblood, “She deals in matespritship and moirallegiance specifically. While young, not even an official adult, the Brokette has an impeccable success rate.” His pride for his moirail was obvious.

The Quadrant Brokette herself appeared embarrassed by all the praise. “It would be kind of silly to abandon a client without making sure that they were completely purrleased with their match. Romance can be challenging even for serendipitously matched couples, though, so my job is nefur truly finished. But as long as there is a mewtual desire to have and keep a matespritship or moirallegiance going, I can find a way to make it work!”

At that, the Brokette earned a smidgeon of respect in Karkat’s eyes, even if her exaggerated optimism showcased just how young she truly was—probably about Karkat’s own age, in fact.

“Well, if you have that much dedication to your job, I may just have to hire you myshellf someday,” the Empress said, moving to another chair to allow a space between her and Karkat, “Since you and the Pitiable share a comment fishcination with redrom, perchaps you two shoald sit together and chat?”

Karkat almost protested at Feferi’s obvious attempt at some matchmaking of her own, despite how rude it would have been, but the Mechanic beat him to it.

“If it doesn’t offend you, your majesty, I would prefer for my moirail to stay by my side,” the Mechanic said, but not without breaking into a nervous sweat, “One of my greatest flaws is my unending concern for her safety.”

For a moment, there was a flash in the Brokette’s eyes, something like indignation, before it passed. She smiled at the Empress and gave a small bow. “If you don’t mind, I think I can come up with a good solution, your highness. If Miss Whiteweb were to sit between the Pitiable and yourself, then I could sit beside the my meowrail and the Pitiable myself. The willingness to compurromise is key to all relationships: romantic, platonic, or purrfessional.” Her wit and pride hid modestly behind the curve of her polite smile, but Karkat recognized the smugness in her eyes as her moirail perspired all the harder.

So the Basileia took the spot between the Empress and Karkat instead, turning her back to him as though he didn’t exist. She immediately launched into the talk of politics with Feferi, airing complaints about issues that Karkat had never heard of before, concerning places he had never been. It became impossible to listen in on their conversation once the Brokette began speaking to him, anyway, asking question after invasive question of his past. She must have been a fan, he suspected.

“Which abbey did you and the Counture come from again?” “Sainctus Agatha’s.”

“That’s the one in the south, yes?” “Southeast, yeah, in Chartreuse Gardens, an oasis town in the Desert of the Undead.”

“I’ve nefur been. Even seen the undead before?” “It’s what the desert is named for. The grubmothers generally keep them at bay by growing plants poisonous to their kind.”

“Did you study at Sainctus Agatha’s as well?” “Well, I certainly didn’t traverse the god forsaken desert looking for any other libraries in the immediate area.”

“Did the library there have the Romologist Ternburg’s completed collection of quadratic theories?” “No, only the first couple of volumes.”

“Oh, they’re so good. Would you care to borrow mine?” “There is no need for that. The Empress was kind enough to gift me with the rest.”

Back and forth the somewhat one-sided conversation went, Karkat trying his best to keep up with the Brokette’s seemingly never-ending inquiries. He knew that his story had been romanticized, of course (how many famous hivetrolls originated far from highblood society?), but he was beginning to resent the extent of it. 

He was beginning to respond with quick, one or two word answers when he was saved by an impossibly large troll stepping onto the stage, not needing to rely on the stairs with his legs that appeared taller than Karkat’s entire body. His garb identified him as the current High Rapso.

High Rapso Al-Deneb sat in the common cross-legged pose of the religiously devout, one hand on each knee, and the room went from buzzing with conversation to silent in a fraction of an instant.

Even with all the attention focused solely on him, Al-Deneb appeared unsatisfied until a full minute of silence had passed. Karkat’s leg was starting to itch, but he dared not to move an inch until at long last, the High Rapso began to speak. 

“Devoted sons, daughters, and friends,” he spoke in a voice that crackled and rough, like a road made of hard, broken terrain. “Today I retire from my positon as High Rapso of this mimastery. My descendant in sign, blood and genetics will be taking my place. Prophet Illsayer, please take your rightful place beside me, so we may begin the ritual.”

The troll that Karkat now knew as Gamzee came forward, and he appeared even scrawnier than before, dwarfed by his ancestor. The title of prophet through the Pitiable for a loop, and he couldn’t deny that his curiosity had been piqued. 

Gamzee sat in a pose identical to the High Rapso’s, and seeing them side by side made their shared genetics quite obvious. Even the seriousness in their expressions and the grimness in their eyes were mirrored. Karkat wondered if Gamzee would grow to look like Al-Deneb, but then remembered he would not live long enough to find out either way. 

“Illsayer,” the High Rapso said, “I trust our Messiahs have gifted you with visions the day before your tenth sweep and anointment. Son, please share with us the god’s messages with us. What are we to expect in the sweeps following your elevation to High Rapso?”

The smaller brahmime was silent at first. When he spoke, his voice was far louder than Karkat remembered it being, thick and not unlike his ancestor’s. “I have peeped on the paradise planet. Our people will not be alone there. The Messiahs themselves wish to share it with us, in physical form.” He paused, allowing this revelation to seep in. “I understand my destiny now. It is from my bloodline that the chosen one will be born. It is he who will travel past the dark carnival, through Shangri-La itself, to meet and welcome the Gods to our world. The paradise planet is a place of strange miracles I would need sweeps to properly define. Shangri-La is a place of endless mirth, and the Messiahs will rule over all, even the Empress herself, morphing both time and space to their divine, omniscient will. Their world will be one that rewards the devout, and weeds out the undeserving.

“I regret to say that I will not live to see all this come to fruition with my own two oculars. None present in this block will. Our task is of just as much importance, however. If any of what I have described is to occur, we must labor to keep the faith strong. Many trials stand in our immediate future, and they will be all about testing our trust in the Messiahs, and each other…”

The previously joyful atmosphere appeared to have dissolved with Gamzee’s somber speech, and Karkat shifted, uncomfortable with the haunted look in his culler’s eyes.

The rest of the ritual passed by quickly, with Al-Deneb naming various responsibilities, and Illsayer promising to fulfil them. At last, Al-Deneb passed a glass goblet of some strange, bubbling red liquid to his descendant to drink, and declared him High Rapso, and the brahmimes’ holy fast over. The crowd began stirring all at once around Karkat, headed to the dining hall for a celebration feast.

To Karkat’s disappointment, Feferi turned down his request to come eat with him. “I am shrimply too busy, my frond,” she told him with a tight hug that again turned heads left and right, “Write me, and I will be shore to visit as soon as I am available again.”

The Basileia, Mechanic and Quadrant Brokette were not company Karkat was keen on keeping, so he was quick to lose them in the hustle and bustle as he followed the brahmimes to the dining hall.

\--

Not on even the most holy of days had Karkat ever seen such an array of luxurious food at the abbey. The smell hit him first, and then he could only stare in disbelief as he took in an eyeful of the multiple tables piled with dishes both known and unknown to him. In his pause, Karkat didn’t notice that his culler had snuck up behind him until Gamzee spoke.

“Saying a prayer to the heavens all up above for our much talented cooks, brother?”

Karkat glanced over his shoulder at the troll who was now the head of the entire Cult of the Messiahs. Besides the new title, High Rapso Gamzee was not adorned with anything to prove his rank. However, the skull hanging from the necklace around his neck was carved with his symbol, the same caste sign that the High Rapso before him was associated with. It was Karkat’s first time seeing it on Gamzee, and realized that he would be wearing it soon as well.

“If it is anything like the snack I sampled earlier, then it should suffice,” Karkat replied simply, only to be surprised by his culler’s amused laugh.

Gamzee’s hand touched Karkat’s back, only for a moment, and disappeared. “Go and pick out what your heart is desiring most. Your collar has been delivered to your block, along with the quill and pen you requested earlier on this night. The staff will bring a tray piled high of whatever food you pick there, so that we may eat together. I was a helper in designing your respite block, so forgive a clown if he’s a tad excited to be the first to see your reaction to it.”

Back was the other’s careless smile, the dark words he had spoken earlier apparently forgotten, or otherwise willingly repressed. Karkat wasn’t sure which.

“Give me just a moment, then,” Karkat replied, giving his culler a slight bow before eagerly moving towards the closest table. It appeared to feature mostly meat dishes, while the table over was lined with large vats of various soups. As Gamzee said, a lowblood was quick to make her way to Karkat with a large serving platter, asking what she could carry for him.

Karkat thought for a moment, but the obvious answer came to him quickly. “What do you have in terms of seafood?”

\--

The respiteblock set up in preparation for the Pitiable was more than acceptable for a hivetroll as notorious and rare as he was. Perhaps the circus motif was stronger than Karkat would have liked, but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain as he moved the beautiful dark silk fabric hanging behind the door through his hand. Similar curtains fell from the ceiling to each wall, like a tent that kept the room within at a cozy dimness. 

Gamzee was already there, seated at a place at the far end of the room. The glow of candles and hanging florescent orbs shifted the shadows around him, making it appear as though he was haloed. Any ceremonial décor the High Rapso had been wearing before had been discarded so that he could lounge back in the pillows and strange stuffed dolls comfortably.

“Come here, Karkat,” Gamzee said, his dimples again showing clearly on his face, apparently very satisfied with Karkat’s awe of his surroundings. His hand patted the empty spot beside him. A table sitting before Gamzee had two small cups on it. At first Karkat would be afraid that they’d be full of that strange bubbling drink from the ritual, but instead he recognized the fragrance instantly as tea. Some very expensive tea, Karkat figured as he obediently padded over the soft floor, shoes discarded back at the mat kept by the door for that purpose. 

He noticed that his collar, quill and pen were on a table not too far from the one the teacups sat, and picked up his collar at Gamzee’s request.

Before he could put it around his neck, Gamzee’s hands moved to cup Karkat’s. “Allow me,” his culler said, “I think it’s being my job to do tasks like that for you now, even though it’s being real simple all on its own.” Gamzee ignored Karkat’s somewhat sarcastic reply of, “Oh, you think, do you?” and fitted it around the mutant’s slim throat, his cold fingers brushing Karkat’s bare skin more often than the latter though was strictly necessary. 

When that task was done, a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable settled between them, and Karkat raked his mind for conversation topics, like he had been taught. “So… you have visions?”

“Huh?” Gamzee turned his head, as if surprised. Apparently he had been zoning out, not being silent for the sake of feeling awkward. However, upon repeating his question, Gamzee seemed happy enough to indulge in idle conversation. “Mostly when I try to get my snooze on, but yeah. They’re usually not being anywhere near the territory of pleasant, and most days they don’t go making a lick of sense. Lots of fire and ash and things exploding. I’m in the business of not talking about them, typically.”

“I see….” Karkat couldn’t help but pity the guy, if only a bit. It sounded like he had been handed a pretty bad deal in life.

Gamzee nodded slowly. “Wake myself up, all startled by my screams, a lot of the time. They keep me muzzled, try to help give my brothers and sisters some peace of mind not to be woken by a guy over some day terrors. I suspect that’d get old really fast. But wow, we’re all focusing the topic on me, aren’t we? Sorry about that, my new friend. Why won’t you go telling me why you’re so special again?”

In the span of a minute, Karkat went from feeling sorrier than sorry for the guy, to resenting his very existence again. “I told you earlier,” Karkat deadpanned, disbelieving.

“Yeah, you did. Mind refreshing my memory? It’s not the best at sorting stuff. Keep images of blood I’d rather forget locked tight in the front of my brain, and casually discards the facts that are probably being the most important.” Gamzee looked sheepish, smiling like a child who just got scolded and didn’t feel sorry for his actions in the least.

Gamzee leaned forward, close enough for Karkat to see the dark spots under his eyes, even under that white paint. “Go on. I swear I’ll try to remember it all this time.”

Although Karkat knew he was going to give in, he gave himself a minute to appear as though he was debating. He made sure Gamzee’s attention did not fade away, as if testing if the High Rapso could even keep his attention on him long enough to introduce himself. Finally Karkat relaxed, pulling his knees closer to his stomach and thinking about what he would say first. “I am called the Pitiable, and I come from Chartreuse Gardens, and the only abbey the small desert town has there…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter was drawn by [ellydraws.tumblr.com]()


End file.
